Peaches Geldof: The wild child who found joy as a mother - Telegraph Celebrity news Peaches Geldof: The wild child who found joy as a mother The death of Peaches Geldof has refocused attention on the tragic events – a bitter divorce and her mother’s overdose – that have haunted her loving family Michael Hutchence and Paula Yates in 1994 Photo: ALPHA Follow Sometimes an event will occur that makes everyone want to bury their heads in their hands and say: “God, no, enough.” The death of the young, bright, beautiful, endearingly eccentric Peaches Geldof, who finally seemed to have found meaning in her short life, is one of those occasions. It is not often that one can talk about the public mood with any confidence, but that mood in this case is all shock, sorrow and incredulity. One felt as if one knew Peaches, and what one knew one liked. We were on her side, rooting for her to put the troubles of her too painful, too public youth behind her. The wayward teenager, with her tattoos and penchant for attention-seeking, had finally grown up.

In doing so she had blossomed into a resilient woman who appeared to have resolved her motherless state in her own motherhood. She too now leaves motherless children: two young sons, babies, one just short of his first birthday. The word “tragedy” is overused, but in Peaches’s case it is apt. It is no less apt for the narrative she was born into: the Geldof / Yates / Hutchence drama played out on the public stage. Bob Geldof, the rabble-rousing hero who tried to save the world; Paula Yates, his punk princess, as vulnerable as she was charismatic; and Michael Hutchence, the priapic pop star who caused their parting and whose death apparently derived from a sex act. Related Articles Peaches Geldof found dead at age of 25 07 Apr 2014 Theirs was not merely a private drama, but a public and acrimonious spectacle, in which sex, death and newspaper headlines coincided; a story of passion, infatuation and addiction – and lives cut savagely short. At first, there was only romance of the most youthful and tender sort.

In 1976, 17-year-old Yates, clad in crinoline and heels, raced through Paris in a snowstorm to claim her Boomtown Rat, then in his mid-twenties. She had declared herself in love, having seen him on television. “It was glamorous in a weird way,” he recalled, “like playing in Paris in a sweaty club, and she’s in a ball gown, and after the gig we go driving around Versailles in the snow.” She was surer than he, boasting of her “Rottweiler” determination to secure her man. Both were soon deeply in love. Together they became Eighties icons. She was the modishly insouciant, peroxide-blonde presenter of The Tube on the newly minted Channel 4; he, the dishevelled campaigning hero behind Band Aid in 1984, Live Aid a year later, creating a First World conscience regarding its Third World responsibilities. The Queen rendered him “Sir Bob” for it, the world judging him sainted despite his foul mouth.

In the wake of this triumph, they married, surrounded by rock royalty, at their idyllic Faversham priory, their first daughter, Fifi Trixibelle, already a toddler. The groom looked uncharacteristically dashing in his top hat and tails. His bride was swathed in flowing scarlet, clutching a bouquet of roses and ivy in front of her 17-inch waist. Their apotheosis as golden couple seemed complete. Two more whimsically named daughters followed, Peaches in 1989 and Pixie in 1990. There were discreet affairs, but both strove to create a family life that they had missed out on. Paula, in particular, appeared intent on some sort of parody of a Fifties home journal, describing her mothering philosophy in several books and a Good Housekeeping column. Her own upbringing had been nothing if not unsettled. She was born in Colwyn Bay to a showgirl mother who penned erotic novels. The man she believed to be her father was Jess Yates, the ostensibly saintly, electric organ-playing host of the ITV religious series Stars on Sunday, beloved of the blue-rinse brigade.

Sixteen years older than his wife, Yates was a philanderer, sacked because of a private life deemed too exotic for the godly. Late in life, and mourning Hutchence, Paula discovered that her biological father had, in fact, been that other light entertainment stalwart Hughie Green, a man she had been brought up to despise. Her husband’s childhood had been beset by more quotidian miseries. A much-loved little boy from a staunchly stable, middle-class County Dublin home, his mother effectively disappeared overnight when she died from a brain haemorrhage. He has said that this sudden vanishing was never properly explained. From the age of seven, Bob was brought up by two adoring older sisters and a strict father, whose work meant he was only present at weekends. Young Bob took care of himself: fetching coal, warming soup, reading, listening to the wireless and rebelling into punk rock. He has since described himself as terrified of loneliness. They were, in many respects, an odd couple. He, mouthy, cerebral, astute, obstreperous in the face of authority, difficult, intense, hypersensitive, yet unafraid of being deemed obnoxious.

She the flighty, flirtatious, self-publicising child-woman, unabashed regarding her more trivial obsessions, casually rather than determinedly articulate, with scatterbrained wit and charm. He declared that a state of permanent passion becomes “terribly boring”. She seemed to crave sexual excitement as proof that she was alive. Still, if there was one thing that united them, it was the desire to be good parents. And then the world watched their 18‑year relationship implode. That we saw this on live television, when Yates interviewed Australian rock star Michael Hutchence while writhing suggestively on a bed, added a ghastly voyeuristic element. Their affair had started before, this merely being its public outing. Hutchence, lead singer with the band INXS, prided himself on his bad-boy image; Yates, who described him as “God’s gift to women”, prided herself on being chief groupie. He had notoriously “sexed up” former lover Kylie Minogue, transforming her from sudsy soap princess into “Sex Kylie”. After a very public cuckolding, Yates left Geldof for this libidinous icon.

When their separation was announced early in 1995, both parents faxed the press with a pledge that they would “see and speak and eat with each other daily, occasionally go out together and continue to love one another”. It was not to be. The pair divorced in May 1996. The settlement battle churned through the courts for two years, spiralling into animosity and brutal recrimination. Hutchence labelled Saint Bob “Satan”. Geldof detested his former rival, not least as Paula had never used drugs or alcohol until she took up with the INXS frontman. Both addictions soon appeared out of control. The police raided Yates’s home and found opium in a tube of Smarties under a bed. There was a protracted battle over property and custody of their three daughters, Fifi, Peaches and Pixie: then 13, six and four. Yates announced that she felt akin to the victim of an 18th-century witch-hunt and downed Valium with a bottle of Irish Cream. She spoke of taking her children – including her 18-month-old daughter by Hutchence, Heavenly Hiraani Tiger Lily – for a four-month stay in Australia.

Geldof refused permission. Shortly after she conveyed this to Hutchence, the singer filled himself with drink and anti-depressants in a Sydney hotel room and hanged himself with a leather belt in a sordid suicide-cum-sex act. His funeral was notable for its gaggle of vampishly clad female mourners. A devastated Yates blamed her ex-husband for her lover’s demise. Yates’s behaviour became ever more erratic. In June 1998, Geldof won full custody of their daughters after Yates attempted suicide. Hutchence’s father launched proceedings to acquire custody of his granddaughter. On September 17, 2000, Pixie’s 10th birthday, Yates, now 41, was found dead of a heroin overdose. Geldof howled like an animal on being informed. A man feted for his public compassion, he achieved a feat as monumental in his personal life in taking custody of Yates and Hutchence’s orphaned daughter, ensuring she was brought up with her sisters. Still, the children suffered immeasurably. “The very worst thing that happened to me started with my parents’ divorce,” Peaches stated in an interview with Elle magazine in 2012.

“My mother… turned into this heartbroken shell of a woman who was just medicating to get through the day. On top of that, there was my father who was very embittered and depressed about it and for us children, an environment that was impossible, veering between a week with my mother that was complete chaos, and then with my father, which was almost Dickensian – homework, dinner, bed – because he was trying in his own way to combat what was going on at my mother’s.” With shades of his own childhood, Geldof sent the children to school the day after Yates’s death in an effort at normality. Peaches said she did not begin grieving until she was 16. Of her own parenting, she remarked, with a poignancy now monstrous: “Even if it’s an archaic idea, I want [eldest son, Astala] to have a mummy and daddy together forever. It’s a commitment. I want to be a good wife, a good mother, a good person.” It was a love she found redemptive, observing that in parenthood she had found a way “to correct the multiple mistakes of my own traumatic childhood”, something “beyond healing”.

She had been a rebel, like her father, a wild child, like her mother, but in having children she seemed to have found a way of combining the best of both parents. She still had her issues – her reported obsession with matters occult, not least – but she seemed to be getting there against all the odds. In an interview for Mother & Baby magazine, published the day her body was found, she described her life as “bliss”. Much has been made of the final image Peaches tweeted, the day before she died, of herself as a child with her mother. However, there was another, earlier picture, posted on Saturday, of her and her dog in which this beautiful young woman looked weary, haunted and hollow-eyed. Over the next few days we will find out the physical reasons why she died, but it will not answer our wider collective questioning of why this valiant life should be cut short, yet more children left motherless. On Monday evening, her father evidenced his articulateness at its most lacerating: “Peaches has died. We are beyond pain. She was the wildest, funniest, cleverest, wittiest and the most bonkers of all of us.

Writing 'was’ destroys me afresh. What a beautiful child. How is this possible that we will not see her again? How is that bearable? We loved her and will cherish her forever.” How sad that sentence is. Tom and her sons Astala and Phaedra will always belong in our family, fractured so often, but never broken. Bob, Jeanne, Fifi, Pixie and Tiger Geldof.” No one can fail to wish him love. PEACHES GELDOF: A LIFE IN QUOTES On life “I hate being called spoilt. My life is ordinary.” On being called Peaches “My weird name has haunted me all my life.” On body image “I can’t bear people who don’t eat. I think it is horrible that Victoria Beckham is a role model. She is vile. Girls should have curves.” On speaking her mind “It comes of being by yourself when you are growing up, because you’re reading and you’re forming an opinion, and there’s no one to argue with you, so you become dogmatic.

There’s no one to temper your opinion, so you think you’re right.” On her 'wild child’ reputation “I did experiment with drugs, I did get drunk and go to parties, but I was never that wild. I could have been, I could have let myself spiral, but all the time I remembered what happened to my mum.” On her mother “[She] was amazing, wrote books on parenting, gave us this idyllic childhood in Kent; and then turned into this heartbroken shell of a woman who was just medicating to get through the day.” On her father “My dad is literally the biggest tight–––. He’s a miser, an Irish potato famine miser.” On her mother’s death “I didn’t grieve. I didn’t cry at her funeral. I couldn’t express anything because I was just numb to it all. I didn’t start grieving for my mother properly until I was about 16.” On celebrity journalism “Our need to knock celebrities is twisted: it’s deep in the mid-brain, below the survival instinct. That lust to see a downfall, it’s animalistic.” On motherhood “Becoming a mother was like becoming me, finally.

After years of struggling to know myself, feeling lost at sea, rudderless and troubled, having babies through which to correct the multiple mistakes of my own traumatic childhood was beyond healing.” On her children “There was nothing stopping me from having constant fun. But it was becoming boring. I wanted an anchor. And when I had two wailing, smiling, joyful little blobs of waddling pink flesh, they became my entire existence and saved me from one of pure apathy.” On finding happiness “Now with a newfound group of mummy mates, both locally and online – all with the exact same struggles and issues, and who don’t question if my child flings food at their hair or care if there’s a screaming fit in the middle of the street – I’m happier than ever. I’ve achieved a sort of perfect balance. Right now life is good.

And being a mum is the best part of it.” Compiled by Alice Audley Peaches Geldof, Daughter of Rock Star Bob Geldof, Dies at 25 - The Daily Beast GONE TOO SOON Peaches Geldof, Daughter of Rock Star Bob Geldof, Dies at 25 Police found the daughter of rock star Bob Geldof at her home in Kent, England Monday afternoon, but the cause of her sudden death is still unknown. Tom Sykes 04.07.14 9:05 PM ET Peaches Geldof, journalist, TV personality and one-time model, who had two young children, has been found dead at her home at the age of 25. Police officers said they were treating her passing as “sudden” and “unexplained” almost 15 years after the abrupt and public death of her own mother. The rock star scion became one of the loudest voices of her generation; prolific on social media and in the British press.

The final message she posted on Twitter and Instagram was a photograph with her mother, who died suddenly when she was just 11, alongside the message: “Me and my mum.” Peaches, who herself had two children under the age of two, grew up in the public eye, with a column in Elle magazine by the time she was 16. Her father, Bob Geldof, the musician who masterminded the Live Aid concerts in the 1980s, was left to raise her when his estranged wife Paula Yates, a television presenter and writer, died of a heroin overdose. A coroner ruled that her death was an accident, not suicide, despite her obvious despair at the sudden death of her lover Michael Hutchence, the lead singer of INXS. Geldof announced the death of his daughter in a written statement signed by him and his other children. “Peaches has died. We are beyond pain,” he wrote. “She was the wildest, funniest, cleverest, wittiest and the most bonkers of all of us. “Writing ‘was’ destroys me afresh. What a beautiful child. How is this possible that we will not see her again? How is that bearable?

We loved her and will cherish her forever. How sad that sentence is.” Police in Kent, South East England, where she lived, told The Daily Beast they had visited the address after receiving a call expressing concern for the welfare of a 25-year old woman at 1:35p.m. She was subsequently pronounced dead at the scene by the Ambulance service. “The death is being treated as a non-suspicious, but unexplained, sudden death,” a spokesman said. Peaches had two young sons, Astala, 20 months, and Phaedra, 10 months, with her second husband, Thomas Cohen, singer of the London band S.C.U.M. “My beloved wife Peaches was adored by myself and her two sons,” he said. “I shall bring them up with their mother in their hearts everyday. We shall love her forever.” The young mother built up a reputation as something of a nightlife fixture as a teenager, associating with a glossy crowd of stylists and the staff of fashion magazines, who were always tempting her onto their pages. She was also often seen in the front row at fashion week and on the London party circuit.

The last time she was seen in public was during London Fashion Week on April 3. She attended the Temperley shows, and was an enthusiastic cheerleader for British fashion as a whole. Given her lineage, however, it was inevitable that she would end up gravitating towards the music scene, and in recent years her circle of friends included the British singer Eliza Doolittle, Lily Allen and Pixie Lott. Peaches moved to Brooklyn in 2008 after marrying American musician Max Drummey from the band Chester French in a surprise ceremony following a whirlwind romance. She had his name tattooed on her inner wrist, but they separated a year later and divorced in 2011. In recent months, Peaches had taken to applying make-up over her tattoos when she was going out to project a more mature look. After a short relationship with film director Eli Roth, Geldof married Cohen. In 2010 it was reported that she taken heroin during a one-night stand with an American who boasted about the exploits and posted nude pictures of them on Reddit. Geldof admitted that it was her in the images, but denied using the drug.

In recent years she had been notably less visible at UK events after she moved out of London and spent more time at home with her husband and two children in Kent. Like many new parents, her photo streams were dominated by pictures of her children and family life, although on the rare nights out it was still her music-industry mates who would be found by her side. For all her notoriety, Peaches had always struggled to find her niche, bouncing between journalism, modeling and reality TV since her teens. Her next appointment with the public was going to be a charity show on the BBC called Top Dog, in which several celebrities and their pet dogs went head to head in a series of exercises that test their physical agility. The 15-part show was due to begin on March 3, with Peaches paring up with her Golden Retriever, Parper. Get The Beast In Your Inbox! Daily DigestStart and finish your day with the top stories from The Daily Beast. Cheat SheetA speedy, smart summary of all the news you need to know (and nothing you don't).

Untitled Document Paula Yates: 1960 - 2000 (pop singers she copped off with, at a rough estimate) Obviously, its the kids everyone really feels sorry for. But then again, everybody always had sympathy for the children of Paula Yates, seeing as the poor bastards were saddled with bully-encouraging monikers like Fifi Tinkerbell, Peaches Honey Blossom and other names more suited to show jumping horses and pre-op transsexuals from Bangkok. But today, we come not to bury Paula Yates, who was found dead in her house at the age of 40 this Sunday morn - there are going to be plenty of people more than happy to do that. Minor celebrities are always disliked, but there was something about Paula that inspired utter loathing and revulsion. I cant think of one person who ever had a good word for the poor cow. One can imagine The Queen Mother herself turning on the telly one night, seeing Paula holding up a dildo or draping herself over some 80s pop star (her two areas of expertise were shagging and copping off with lead singers of mediocre bands), saying "Ugh!

Not that fucking slag again!", and going to bed. But that would be a massive injustice to the woman. For one, she was just as much of an 80s icon than Boy George, Margaret Thatcher and Mr.T. Secondly, she was a pioneer of the art of being famous for doing very little at all. Actually, thats not necessarily true -she had a CV that most people in the media would kill for, presenting a swathe of TV programmes and writing a pile of books. Alright, most of them were not worth wiping your arse upon and she was really famous for playing Yoko Ono to an Irish Jaggerlike and a dead Australian bloke who really, really wanted to be Jim Morrison, but since when did that matter? Like it or not, the woman was a pioneer of the celebrity culture that has infested our life, and people like Liz Hurley, Posh Spice and any other two-bit game show hostess who can get away with conning Hello! or OK! into paying for their weddings in exchange for exclusive pics should get on their knees and thank Paula Yates for giving them a standard of living way beyond their value to society.

This is her story, set to the words of her favourite band, Duran Duran I. Please Please Tell Me Now  Is There Something I Should Know? Paula Yates was always going to be famous. Without question. She spent most of her life under the misconception that her dad was Jess Yates, a rather bonkers presenter of a TV show called Stars On Sunday in the early 70s. Said programme was an attempt to fulfil ITVs contractual obligation to Big Up Christ without boring the arse off people, and featured Jess giving it loads on the organ whilst Cliff Richard or Ken Dodd butchered That Old Rugged Cross or somesuch. Unfortunately, Ol Jess turned out to be a right cad and ran off with an 18 year-old strump. In 1972, this a scandal akin to Monicagate. The papers went berserk, and the man elbowed less trifling matters like the Miners Strike, the Oil Crisis and everything else right off the front page. Obviously, Paula learned a trick or two off her old man. Except that he wasnt her Dad.

After he died a couple of years ago, Paula found out that her actual father was Hughie Greene, another enormous TV star back in the day who was famous for hosting a talent show called Opportunity Knocks, and his catchphrase " and I mean that Most Sincerely, folks" whilst looking as about as sincere as the clowns that used to entertain Jewish kids on the way to the gas chambers. Well, Opportunity certainly knocked for Hughie when he got Paulas Mam up the stick II. The Union Of The (trouser) Snake Some of us are born great. Some of us achieve greatness. And others have a pop stars cock thrust upon them. The list of women who achieved fame by shagging a muso is long and storied. Priscilla Presley, who lived with the King from the age of 14. Yoko Ono, who is supposed to have destroyed the delicate balance of the Beatles by nicking one of Ringos chocolate biscuits at Abbey Road. Marianne Faithfull having a Mars Bar shoved up her (allegedly, and hopefully, because its such a good story) at Keith Richards house.

Linda McCartney, who used to be the answer to the question "What do you call a dog with Wings?" but redeemed herself by being the first person to make decent veggieburgers (cheers, Linda, and can you do me a favour and haunt the relevant authorities into bringing back those fake chicken & mushroom pies? They were well lush. Nice one). Unfortunately for Paula, she came of age in the late 70s, when the pickings were leaner. Rod Stewart and Mick Jagger had already taken on the look of middle-aged lesbian inmates in Prisoner: Cell Block H, and all of the new breed were into Punk and New Wave and dead against all that celebrity girlfriend shit. It just wasnt fair. Shed already posed nude for Penthouse, so was entitled to a pop star boyfriend by default. (Not surprisingly, the minute she became famous the photos appeared in premier Brit shit-rag, The News Of The World.What was surprising was that she didnt try to stop them from printing the pics, or complained about press intrusion, or even passed it off as youthful indiscretion. She didnt give a shit, and even ended up writing a column for them.

Respect to her) That all changed when Bob Geldof came along. Nowadays, Bob is best remembered for being Mother Teresa with pointy sideburns. The man of whom your Nana would say "Aye, well, its nice hes doing so much for them Ethiopian kiddies, but I wish hed have a good shave". The only man to ever say "Look, just give me the fucking money" for a good cause on live TV. Back then, however, Bob was the lead singer of The Boomtown Rats, a second-division New Wave band from Ireland who seemed to live on Top Of The Pops for a time. Two images stand out from that era: the time I knocked my portable telly over when Bob suddenly stuck his face in the camera and I ran out of the bedroom in terror (the telly survived, youll be pleased to hear. It was indestructible. I once dropped it down a flight of stairs, and it still worked. But anyway). The other great Bob moment came when the band played Rat Trap on Top Of The Pops and he ripped up a poster of John Travolta.

To me and the kids at Junior School, this was an act of revolution. Overnight, the playground was divided between girls and soft lads recreating Summer Nights, and nihilistic youths like me and my mates, who were Smashing The System by, er, jumping about with our arms round each other singing "Were Going Down The Pub" by Sham 69. Anyway, Paula met Bob, they got jiggy, and her career truly began. Before long, she showed the world that a new and important talent had arrived, with a book that set the tone for her career. It was called Rock Stars In Their Underpants, and consisted of photos of, well, Rock Stars. In Their Underpants. Right at the end of the tome, there was a pic of a framed pair of Elvis kecks. III. Girls On Film Finally, in 1982, Paula did the thing that she will be remembered for until people eventually forget what she did and who she was. The Tube might have been a shameless rip-off of Ready Steady Go!, which was the greatest music show ever shown on the telly.

But then again, virtually every pop show on the TV today is a shameless rip-off of The Tube. Three hours long, live, starting at Friday tea-time, bridging the gap between coming home from school and, well, going out and hanging around school in the evening. And totally essential. Anyone worth a damn in the early to mid-eighties appeared live on The Tube. It was the last TV show The Jam appeared on, and it broke acts like U2, Madonna, The Cure and Frankie Goes To Hollywood. In a time when videos were just as important (if not more so) than the actual songs, The Tube always had em first. Sometimes, they even had special late-night shows in order to debut full-length and uncensored screenings of Two Tribes, Thriller and that Duran Duran video with the birds rubbing ice cubes on their nips. Basically, The Tube was that damn good. And it made stars of their presenters  Jools Holland (the likeably arsey keyboard player in Squeeze) and Paula Yates. And she was brilliant. Her interviewing technique involved dragging some Pop Gonk on the sofa and flirting her arse off with them.

She was like your slutty big sister who brought home some new pop hunk boyfriend every week and tried to cop off with him every time your Mam put the kettle on. One week, shed be trying it on with Terence Trent DArby. The next, shes reducing someone out of Heaven 17 to a puddle of shy bashfulness. TV interviewers usually become famous for nailing down people like Richard Nixon or Lady Di, whilst others bring out facets of important peoples characters we never knew existed, like Face To Face in the 60s. Paula Yates became famous for looking as if she was this close to rubbing Simon Le Bons balls with her foot and going down on the lead singer in Imagination. Sadly, The Tube was too edgy to last. Paula announced that her and a co-presenter were going to have a "Big lezzie sex session" whilst introducing Twisted Sister or some such band, Jools Holland went even further by saying "Come on and watch The Tube, you groovy fuckers" during a kids TV show ad break, and the show was axed.

IV: The (gag) Re-Flex But just because your gravy train hits the buffers, it doesnt mean the end of the ride. By this time, Paula had reached the zenith of her career by being famous for being famous. And she made an art form out of it. Being married to Saint Bob didnt harm her exposure in the slightest, but she was more than capable of going for self. Saddling babies with stupid names. Presenting an endless series of TV shows that were supposed to be sexually educational in the era of AIDS Awareness, but were really a good excuse to get some tits and arse on the telly. And going back to her roots by heavily flirting with pop stars in bed. As a matter of fact, some would say her greatest achievement was being the only woman to be filmed in the sack with George Michael. Her last big TV gig was as a presenter on The Big Breakfast, Channel 4s morning show. Obviously, the fact that her husband owned the production company helped, somewhat. By this time (the early 90s) it was evident that it was too late in the day to flirt with pop stars anymore.

It wasnt that she was too old  just that the acts were so damn young. Put Paula on a sofa with some whelp out of Take That or East 17, and she came over like some dirty auntie who says things like "Eeh, youre a big lad now arent you Jason?" and plys you with Babycham and steak tartare in an attempt to snaffle your cherry. It just wasnt working out, and Paula was aced out by Chris Evans, who was well on the way to becoming The Most Annoying Cunt In The World, Ever. And then she dumped Bob for Michael Hutchence. It was always bound to happen. There had been rumours flying around the papers for years that Paula had been slapping it about with people like Terence Trent DArby, Ben Unpronounceable-Surname of Curiosity Killed The Cat, and, ooh, just get a copy of Smash Hits, flick it open at any page and stick a pin in. Yeah, him too.

Viz even printed a board game where you pretended to be Paula and collected points by shagging as many pop stars as possible: "Watching Top Of The Pops, you realised youve shagged everyone in the Top Ten  Collect 50 points! You can win the game outright if you achieve the impossible and pop Cliff Richards cherry  simply throw six consecutive sixes and youve done it!" What ensued gave the papers invaluable training for all the palaver with Charles, Diana, and Camilla that was soon to come. For a time in the early 90s, you couldnt open a paper without seeing Paulas gusset as she got out of a car, or Michael punching a photographer in the face outside a nightclub, whilst poor old Bob followed mournfully around with a bunch of flowers. Paula divorced Bob, shacked up with Michael, who gave her another kid to saddle with a dumb name, and then choked himself to death on a belt whilst having a wank in a hotel, or something. Suicide or sexual asphixiation?

Paula always said that he was too much of a gentleman to drop her in the shit like that, but having said that, gentlemen dont usually make a habit of choking their neck and their chicken with the assistance of prostitutes. Either way, it was the beginning of the end. V. The Diving Mans Coming Up For Air, Cos Everybody Loves Pulling Dolly By The Hair Not surprisingly, she entered a period of depression that would last until the rest of her life. Even less surprisingly, no-one gave a toss. Whats the difference between Paula Yates and the England cricket team? Paula Yates managed to bring The Ashes back from Australia. And so on. She bounced in and out of expensive clinics, but hey, doesnt every micro-celeb? By this time, not even the fact that shed shacked up with a recovering heroin addict failed to stir much interest in the papers. Not until he stitched her up and exclusively revealed the details of their relationship in the News Of The Screws. I bet hes feeling pretty chuffed with himself at the moment. The final act came about a year ago when she was invited to interview Jerry Springer in front of a celebrity audience.

She turned up completely off her face, started rambling about nothing in particular, and then had to walk off set when she developed a nosebleed, leaving Jerry to basically interview himself. No-one explained what was going on, but it was pretty damn obvious. Particularly when Jerry said to her "I dont do cocaine  I just like the smell of it". And that, basically, is it. The attempted suicide attempt. Losing the kids to Bob. Sleeping with Michael's ashes in her pillow. Obviously, with the benefit of hindsight, cracking up. It's all very unnecessarily tragic, isn't it? For someone who spent 18 years in the limelight, her legacy is small  a few books that have probably increased in morbid curiosity value by about 10p in the local charity shop, the "Hey! Hey! Hey!" sample in The Prodigy's Firestarter (that she did originally for the Art Of Noise), and pics of her having anal sex with Michael somewhere on the Internet. But to pass her off as another Celebrity Skank is a bit uncharitable, not to mention plain wrong.

Sure, all she ever did was shag pop stars and make a living out of it, but she was unlucky to do it in the 80s. Ten years earlier, shed have been seen as a sexual avatar and proto-feminist. Ten years later, shed have been utterly glorified as an Independent Woman Of The 90s who knew how to play the game and used what she had to get what she wanted. But being willing and able to slag it with celebs in an age where AIDS paranoia was rampant was a 'crime' for which she was never forgiven. And of course, if she was a bloke, we'd all have been praising her to the skies for being such a love-em-and-leave 'em 'hellraiser'. Ta-ra, Paula. Somewhere up there, youre probably rolling about on a cloud with dead pop stars like Elvis, Jimi Hendrix, and Falco. Oh, and Michael as well.

Peaches Geldof's death at 25 'not suspicious' police say | Daily Mail Online 'No drugs and no suicide note,' Police say death of Peaches Geldof at 25 is not suspicious as father Bob pays heart-breaking tribute to 'the wildest, funniest, cleverest, wittiest and the most bonkers of us all' Officers found 'no hard drugs, no suicide note, no visible signs of injury', it has been claimed Peaches Geldof, 25, found dead yesterday at her home in Wrotham, Kent Kent Police called to house at 1.35pm, said death was 'sudden' and 'unexplained', not treating it as suspicious She was the second daughter of musician Bob Geldof and Paula Yates The former wild child leaves her husband rock singer Thomas Cohen and their two sons Astala, 23 months, and Phaedra, who is almost one year old Peaches lost her own mother to a drug overdose in September 2000 when she was just 11 years old Her last tweet, posted on Sunday, was a picture of her as a baby in her mother's arms In a heartbreaking statement, father Bob said: 'We are beyond pain

' Her husband said: 'We shall love her forever' 10 Celebrities Who Named Their Children When They Were High - PopCrunch 10 Celebrities Who Named Their Children When They Were High by Julian March 17, 2010 39 Maybe they really were high at the time, or maybe they simply held too high an opinion of themselves: the sort of arrogance that leads people to believe they’re above messing up the lives of their children – that the little celebrity mini-me’s couldn’t possibly have their school years ruined by an unrelenting barrage of insults and bullying.

And all because of a name. A stupid, goddamn name. Mom? Dad? I don’t care how many lousy films you made or embarrassing albums you recorded. How could you have done this to me? 10. Apple born of Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin No, this name didn’t come to fruition due to a love affair – or marketing deal – with iphones or Macs. Apparently, Gwyneth Paltrow and shoe gazing lead singer of Coldplay, Chris Martin named their daughter Apple purely by chance or because apples are whole, sweet and crisp. Yeah, when they’re not bad, rotten to the core, basically well past their sell-by-date. A bit like daddy’s albums. Fifi Trixibelle born of Bob Geldof and Paula Yates Any couple that names their other kids Peaches Honeyblossom and Little Pixie are unlikely to have blessed their firstborn with a less freakish moniker. Fifi Trixibelle is said to have been named after celebrity activist onetime pop star dad Bob Geldof’s beloved aunt Fifi, with the Trixibelle bit coming about due to mom Paula Yates’ fascination with southern belles. That’s no excuse though.

It still comes out sounding like the podium call at a dog show. They should have tried Fido Snoopy Lassie. Pedigree naming. Moon Unit born of Frank Zappa Frank Zappa was a legend, no doubt about it, but those same liberally consumed substances that one would assume oiled the wheels of his experimental musical output may have also helped him dream up some damn strange names for his kids. The father of Dweezil and Diva Thin Muffin Pigeen first procreated a girl he named Moon Unit. Yep, barely visible through the herbal haze of the 70s, Zappa was the daddy of the crazy celebrity naming brigade, and Moon Unit set the tone for doped out generations to come. Monsanto Lobbyist Dr. Patrick Moore Says Weed Killer Is Safe To Drink; Refuses A Glass Jermajesty born of Jermaine Jackson This is our personal favorite. Whatever white powder it is that feeds the ego and takes it to new and unheard of levels of self-glorifying idiocy, Jermaine Jackson and partner Alejandra Genevieve Oaziaza (previously married to Jermaine’s brother Randy) must’ve been on it in copious quantities.

Seriously, though, the ex-Jackson Five star is a guy who has said he ‘sees people’ from the 1800s if he sleeps with the lights off, so he’s obviously one sandwich short of a picnic. Yes Jermajesty. Hilarious. Memphis Eve born of Bono Perhaps it’s small wonder that a self-absorbed rock star who named himself after a hearing aid retailer, Bono Vox, should give his daughter a similarly stupid name like Memphis Eve. As if in competition with his band mate The Edge – who named his own progeny Blue Angel – Bono went all weird with the naming of his own child. Was the baby conceived of an evening in Memphis? We hope so, otherwise someone should tell the U2 front man there’s no such thing as Memphis Day. Prince Michael II born of Michael Jackson We know it’s not really the done thing to speak ill of the dead, but someone – even a dead someone – who names their miraculously conceived offspring after themselves while adding the cheesiest of royal titles must have been a bit nuts in the head. Oh wait, that’s exactly what the King of Pop was. Freaking nuts.

Prince Michael II was also given the nickname Blanket, a word that in this context somehow seems a little too cuddly. Rocket born of Robert Rodriguez Father to children who go by the names of Racer, Rebel, Rogue and, best of all, Rocket, Robert Rodriguez is evidently a film maker keen to preserve the really quite relentlessly repetitious alliterative qualities of his own name in his bloodline. And to do so while conjuring a host of boyishly action-packed images – much like the Sin City director’s films. Superbowl Hotties: Arizona vs. Pittsburgh Sage Moonblood born of Sylvester Stallone This here’s a classic from Sylvester ‘don’t push me’ Stallone and his first wife Sasha Czack from the Rambo star’s pre-puffed up plastic surgery face days in the 80s. Also parent to one Seargeoh, Sly, who went on to write the script for Rocky, appears to have named his second son (an actor who appeared with his father in Rocky V and Daylight) after one of his early pen names, Q. Moonblood. Who knows where the Sage part came from? More herbal influence of a kind though.

Kal-El Coppola born of Nicholas Cage Receding Hollywood actor Nicholas Cage showed himself to be the ultimate comic book geek when he named his son Kal-El, which is Superman’s original birth name. We’re not sure whether the other kids in kindergarten would see the cool side of this before giving young Kal-El a few punches in the stomach, just to see if he could retaliate with his legendary superpowers. ‘He’ll be OK as long as they don’t break out the kryptonite,’ Cage is reported to have said. Yeah thanks dad. Bluebell Madonna born of Geri Halliwell Last but by no means least (certainly in voluptuousness stakes), Geri Halliwell, formerly known as Ginger Spice, who decided to name her own bouncing baby Bluebell Madonna. We’re presuming the second part of the name is an ode to our Madge, a real Queen of Pop. Who knows where Bluebell blossomed from? Frankly, who cares? It’s a dumb name. That’s all you need to know.

Question: Which pop star called one of his children Peaches- Honey-Blossom?
Answer: BOB GELDOF